Rain in the Northern Woods
by Strega Triss
Summary: Companion to Kailin's piece, Into the North. Takes place while Hermione is in Britain. SS


**Rain in the Northern Woods**

Please give the wonderful Kailin credit for inspiring me. (Not to mention JK!) :)

_"You are getting so beautiful they will have to make passport pictures of you 9 feet tall.  
What do you really want to do for a life work? Break everybody's heart for a dime?  
You could always break mine for a nickel and I'd bring the nickel."_

_- Ernest Hemingway _

* * *

Hermione had always loved the rain.

I remember the first time she saw the torrential downpour that always accompanies the arrival of autumn in the northern woods of Canada. I remember being vaguely annoyed by the rain—it meant that we had to stay indoors with nothing to do but think. I myself didn't want to think. Everything was still too fresh. The feelings recently invoked within me were still too much of a surprise. And the rain brought too many memories. Albus too, had always loved the rain. I recall sighing heavily and standing up, stepping inside to escape the cold that would inevitably arrive soon afterwards.

I remember thinking that it was too quiet and turning to find Hermione staring out towards the lake, a look of rapt wonder shining in her eyes. Ever since I first arrived here, the rain has always seemed particularly ethereal with autumn in its wake. The lake seemed tumultuous and powerful with the rain drops making repeated dents and craters in its glassy surface. The rain was falling hard on the stone slab steps heading down to the dock, and flowing in little rivulets between the ruts. I watched her eyes follow each grey droplet. One hand reached out to follow the path of a single drop, following it until it flowed off her chair and splashed, moments later, in the growing puddle on the veranda below.

Her gaze shifted to mine, and in an unspoken question, she asked me what it was. Looking at her scathingly, I sarcastically told her about clouds, about evaporation and condensation, about wind patterns and different forms of precipitation. She looked at me mock reproachingly with her big brown eyes, and told me in no uncertain terms that my answer was too boring.

Before I had time to think up a smooth reply, she cut me off and said the most fanciful thing I'd had heard in a long time. I recall wanting to tell her to stop, before my slowly depleting confidence in her sanity depleted even further.

"_It's magic," she whispered. "It's like the sky is crying."_

I almost laughed, but she looked so amazed and yet serious that I couldn't quite manage it. So instead, again with an undertone of sarcasm, I asked her why the sky was crying. Was it sad?

"_No," she said quietly. "It's not sad. It's crying because it's happy." _

And that was all.

I could never look at rain in quite the same way after that. It wasn't just rain anymore—it was something beautiful and mysterious, fresh and new every time it fell, and always just beyond human understanding.

Hermione taught me to love the rain.

I remembered wishing, as I stood stiffly in my potion's cellar on a dreary Wednesday afternoon, brewing yet another batch of pepper-up, and listening to the downpour hammering upon the roof, that Hermione was there too. I could never quite manage to be annoyed at the rain when she was there to remind me of the wonder of it.

Even the wettest of days in Scotland couldn't succeed in making her hate the rain. It only made her hate the mud and slush.

I always wondered about that. How she could so easily separate the rain from the mud it created. I almost wish, now, that I knew her secret.

But I will never know. Of course she will come to her senses in Britain. I should have gone with first instincts.

I remember sitting out on the deck Saturday night, before slowly rising and pausing before opening the door. It was as if time had stood still and nothing had changed. Of course, that was the big lie, because everything had changed. I recall being suddenly struck by the paradox of it all. Everything and nothing had changed.

* * *

I wake up Sunday morning in a melancholy mood. And as it always does, it takes me a moment to orient myself and remember why I am feeling so off in the first place.

Hermione has still not returned.

I rise eventually and go about my daily routine, occasionally cursing and glaring at the wooden clock on the wall, as if it is consciously aware of the annoyance it continuously causes me. After, showering, eating and trying in vain to read the latest edition of _Potions Journal_, I finally give up and sit on a cushioned chair for over an hour, making no sound. I barely move. I just watch the lake, mesmerized by the rhythm of the small waves as they beat against the shore.

I finally allow myself to think about her. I realize now, that I love her more than I thought possible, but love is tinged with immense foreboding. I push those feelings away violently, torn between wanting to dwell on memories and wanting to forget ever knowing her.

Starting away from my thoughts, my eyes focus on the sight before me. A landscape painted in shades of blue, grey and green.

It isn't raining.

For a split second, I find that strangely comforting. Because I remember now, why I have always disliked the rain. It leaves me with nothing to do but think. And as Hermione _still _has not returned, thinking is not an endeavour I wish to embark upon right now.

I tread slowly down to the cellar and continue to brew morosely. And once again, the enormity of this shocking situation threatens to rise up and slap me in the face. I have survived _fifteen years_ without suffering from boredom, but without the presence of Hermione, without her scent, her items scattered about, _without her smile _... I find myself almost incapable of functioning in a productive way.

This fact alone irritates me incessantly.

Hearing the resounding _pop_ of apparition jolts me from my thoughts and all of a sudden, I felt excited, afraid and full of anticipation all at once. I force myself to stop and breathe while straightening my shirt. I desperately mentally whisper _control control _to myself; all the while walking out to meet the woman who has constantly haunted my thoughts for the past week.

After enthusiastically hurling herself into my arms and gushing about how fantastic it is to be back, she slowly calms down and changes into comfier clothes while I briskly return to my cellar in a vain attempt to seem nonchalant. This forced coolness does not go unnoticed.

The events following prove to be astounding.

After much confrontation, tears and shouting, and not to mention Hermione's insistence in using a ridiculous muggle form of comparison … my heart finally opens. It is as if a dam suddenly bursts open and torrents of emotion wash over us both, leaving us breathless. After our first tender kiss, I move back just a fraction, leaving just the barest sliver of air between us. I open my eyes and she gazes back at me in wonder, tears still hanging off her eyelashes.

And it is in this moment that I finally realize what Hermione has been trying to make clear to me.

Love isn't about making any one particular person match your ideal … it's about allowing them to be who they are, and loving them even more for it, not in spite of it.

Desperately scraping up the last lemmings of courage in this unfamiliar arena, I finally muster the words I have been dying to say for far too long …

I love you, Hermione.

Now, it seems as though the world has miraculously righted itself and as if my fears over the past couple of days have been completely irrational and silly.

Amazing really, the way love can change one's perspective.

I wonder absently, whether such heartfelt emotion automatically shuts off other senses, as it seems as though my auditory senses have only just switched back on. I slowly become aware of the rain falling above and the rhythmic pounding sound it makes upon the gravel path and lake outside. We rush upstairs and run mad through the rain, all the while Hermione giggling like a silly schoolgirl, and for the first time in my life, I honestly can't think of anything _less_ irritating.

Her laughter is like music to my ears.

Luckily, we have the foresight to stoke the fire before tearing off each other's wet clothes and dropping them haphazardly while making our way to the bedroom, laughing at our combined sense of urgency.

Now, sitting in front of a roaring fire, reading and meditating in peaceful silence, I notice that the sound of rain is still present.

Lifting my head and peering through the windows, I see that the clouds have congregated like a huge, all-encompassing blanket and the rain is falling softly amongst the trees outside. Nature has finally embraced the wet of autumn and it will remain for quite some time.

And so, Hermione and I continue living together in companionable peace, and I meditate, and time passes. And finally, I allow myself to forget the harsh pains of my life and instead, enjoy the many pleasures that loving another person can bring, both physically and emotionally. And as I sit watching the sun set just over the clouds on another perfectly wet, dewy day, I am content. It is a different sort of contentment than before, and thanks to the astounding woman next to me, I have come to find it most agreeable.

It feels good listening to the rain.


End file.
